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"You have to trust us," the young man told Malone and Jefferson as he led them into the old theatre.

RANSOM

BY JON CLEARY

THEIR NEW YORK honeymoon brings disaster to INSPECTOR SCOBIE MALONE and LISA, his attractive young wife. Lisa is kidnapped by strange chance, together with SYLVIA, wife of New York's Mayor MICHAEL FORTE.

CAROLE COX organised the kidnapping in revenge for the death in a student demonstration of her fiercely anti-Establishment husband ROY.

She tricked ABEL SIMMONS into helping her, and they have Sylvia and Lisa locked in a bedroom of her family's summer cottage on Long Island. As ransom, they demand the release of five anarchists now in the prison known as The Tombs.

Malone frets impatiently as DES HUNGER- FORD, the Police Commissioner, FBI agent CARTWRIGHT, also Michael's father SAM FORTE, his secretary MANNY PEARL, and other officials, debate the effect that releasing the anarchists may have on Forte's chances in the Mayoral election next day.

With Negro police CAPTAIN JOHN JEFFERSON, he visits The Tombs and talks with one of the anarchists, but they learn nothing from him.

Now staying at the Mayor's official residence Gracie Mansion, Malone meets the Fortes' teenage son and daughter ROGER and PIER, and his hopes rise when FRANK PADUA comes to the Mayor, offering help from his "connections" over the kidnapping.

But Forte refuses the offer, because of Padua's suspected connection with the Mafia. So when Carole telephones just after the Mayor has left to tour his campaign headquarters, Malone speaks to her of Padua as her "go-between."

This so upsets her that, despite hurricane rain, she drives into New York to the headquarters, where she tries vainly to find Padua. Meanwhile, defying the Mayor's orders, Malone sets out with Jefferson to visit Padua. NOW READ ON:

Malone sat back quietly, now and again flinching instinctively as water was flung up by a passing car.

Then Jefferson turned the car down a cross-street, slowed, then parked.

"That's the address. Padua's doing all right if the whole house is his. You own a town house in this area, you're paying maybe a quarter of a million bucks for it.

Even the taxes would break mc."

They ran up the few steps through the rain, huddled against the grille guarding the front door. In a moment the door opened and a young, white-jacketed manservant looked cautiously out at them.

Jefferson introduced Malone and himself, showed

his badge. The man servant surveyed them suspiciously, let them into the narrow hall and went away to see his master. He came back, face blank, told

them Mr. Padua would see them and led them upstairs to a sumptuously furnished room.

But even Malone a man of not much taste, who judged rooms only on the comfort of their beds or chairs, knew that someone had gone too far in the furnishing of this particular room.

There was too much of everything: too many

pictures on the walls, too many valuable ornaments, too much expense.

"Is this an official visit. Captain?" Padua was asking. "No. Mr. Padua. But I can call up Headquarters and have them make it official if that's the way you want

it."

"Let's see what you have to say first."

Padua gestured them to chairs, but remained standing in front of the big marble-surrounded fireplace. The wrought-iron grate held small logs of wood, but a fire would only have been another unnecessary ornament to the room. The central heating

was much too warm for Malone's comfort.

Jefferson looked at Malone and the latter took the hint. Since their visit was unofficial, maybe he'd like to do the talking.

"Mr. Padua, after you left tonight I talked to one of the kidnappers a woman."

"What did she have to say?"

"I mentioned your name to her

Malone waited for a reaction, but Padua's face was as smooth and cold as the marble behind him. "So?"

"She said she was not prepared to have you or your connections come into the act unless you were going to

There was a gasp from Padua as his foot crunched into a piece of the vase. He staggered back as Malone

came after him.

They were up and against the fireplace now. Malone swung wildly to grab Padua again, missed, and his hand swept a small figurine from the mantelpiece and it, too. shattered as it hit the floor.

"No! No!" Padua cried.

"Don't break anything

more!"

"Tell us who your

connections are!"

Padua's arm came up to

protect his face as Malone hit

him again, his elbow swept

along the mantelpiece and three more figurines were

knocked to the floor.

"No — please! No more!

I'll call them! Please!"

Malone let Padua go and the latter stepped away, his foot again crunching on a piece of china. He looked down dazedly at his broken treasures, then up at Malone.

"I could have you killed, you know that?" Padua's

voice was still soft, but his own anger was as furious as

that of Malone.

"I'm sure you could," said

Malone. "Your connections

would fix that for you. But that's a risk I'm willing to

take."

"You better tell us who

they are, Mr. Padua," said Jefferson quietly. "Otherwise Inspector Malone is likely to

wreck all this room of

yours."

Padua hesitated, then said. "I'll have to call them—"

Malone picked up the phone on the table beside the fireplace. "Here!"

"I'd rather be alone when I call them —"

Malone shook his head.

"Come on — get on the phone!"

Padua took the phone reluctantly. He stepped on another piece of china, heard it crush beneath his heel, and winced as if in pain. He

looked at Malone with hatred, then dialled a number.

Malone, his anger dying down, reason returning, looked inquiringly at

Jefferson.

"It got what we wanted," said Jefferson quietly. "Sometimes it's the only way."

Padua spoke into the phone.

"This is Frank Padua. I've had a visit from — from one

of our friends." He glanced at Malone, smiled thinly. He was recovering his compo-

sure. "He wants to see

someone . . . Anyone. I guess —"

"Not anyone." said Malone. "The top one. The bloke who sent you up to see the Mayor."

Padua signed, spoke into the phone again.

"He insists on seeing the top man." He waited, looking from one policeman

to the other.

Once he looked down at the shattered pieces of china on the floor, bit his lip, then

glanced around the room at what he still possessed. Then he held the phone close to his ear again.

"Very well. They'll be there as soon as they can."

He hung up, scribbled an address on the pad beside the phone, tore off the sheet and gave it to Jefferson, ignoring

Malone.

"Someone will be waiting there for you."

When the two policemen had gone, Padua remained standing in front of the fireplace looking about him. He put his fingers up to the weal across his jaw where Malone had hit him, but the pain there was nothing to the other pain he felt.

He knelt down, picked up the largest piece of broken china. Now he had regained his composure he knew that not only the Australian was

to blame for what had

happened.

There were others, the ones who had never

forgotten that his father was

a Sicilian. The one who had

done him favors years ago

when he had first crossed to Manhattan, who had waited all these years before asking for repayment.

Men like Don Auguste Giuffre, a voice from the past that had called today

and mentioned an old debt.

"John, are you sure you want to see this through with me?" Malone asked as they drove off again.

"I'm sure. Only when we see these guys, don't get rough. They won't stand for it the way Padua did."

Jefferson knew he was

laying his head on the block by accompanying Malone on

these "unofficial" visits to

Padua and whomever they were going to see now, but he liked this phlegmatic

Australian and he knew how

he would have felt if any jerk had ever kidnapped Mary.

They came on to the Staten Island Expressway,

turned off and headed south. There was less neon out here.

They were in the suburbs of

darkness. Then Jefferson

slowed, and finally pulled up

in front of a small tavern.

They got out of the car and went into the bar, a dingy stall staffed by a man in a dirty apron. Before they had time to speak to him a thin young man in a black raincoat and a plaid cap got up from one of the booths.

"That's all you guys are these days," said Jefferson. "Nice harmless civic-minded people."

"I get your point. Captain," said the young man with a smile. "But would you believe — I've never heard the word Mafia spoken in our family?"

"How about Cosa Nos-

tra?"

"Fairy-tales." The young man smiled again, but now there was a slight coolness to his voice. "But is this the time to be asking such questions?"

Then he led them into the theatre, down an aisle between the rows of empty seats. Malone, eyes alert, saw the four men standing in the shadows, one to each corner of the big cavernous bam.

He saw Jefferson undo the button of his jacket, making it easier to get at the gun in his shoulder holster. Then they had stopped by an elderly, heavily built man sitting in an aisle seat.

"Grandfather, this is Mr. Malone and Captain Jeffer- son." The young man gestured at the old man who was wrapped in a dark overcoat and was wearing a black homburg hat. "My grandfather, Don Auguste

Giuffre."

"Wait at the back. Ralph.

In case we have some other customers." The old man chuckled, waited till his grandson had gone back up

the aisle. Then he raised his hand, waved it in a dismissal gesture.

The two men down at the front of the theatre moved

up the side aisles, joined their partners at the back and the four of them disappeared through the door into the lobby. Then, and only then, did Don Auguste Giuffre look up at Malone and

Jefferson.

"I own this movie house.

Once I come here with my family every Saturday night — two features, three shorts, a newsreel, all for fifty cents. Now —" He made a gesture of disgust.

"I could keep it open, make money by showing dirty movies. But my grandchildren, the young ones, not Ralph back there, they might come here. Not good. Sit down, gentlemen."

Malone looked over his shoulder toward the back of the theatre. The four men

had disappeared, but Ralph Giuffre stood by the door. The two policemen moved into the row in front of the

old man. and stood facing

him.

The lights along the side walls were on, but they had been dimmed. The show was about to start. Two features, three shorts and a newsreel, all for fifty cents. Malone wondered what price the old man was going to ask for what he was about to offer

them.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Giuffre's accent was rough, but his manners were impeccable. "Our friend said you were having

some trouble —"

"Mr. Padua —" said Malone.

Giuffre held up a hand.

"No names, please. Is better that way."

"All right, no names."

Malone had decided he

would begin with a lie, an approach that had, acciden- tally, had its effect on Padua.

"The kidnappers have threatened your friend. They said they would plant a

bomb outside his house if you interfered."

"Did they say that?" "They implied it."

"Implied — what's implied? I do not have the education my grandson has."

"They hinted — sugges-

ted —"

"You mean that's what you think they meant?"

This old so-and-so may not have gone to college, but he is educated all right. "No. that's what I'm sure they

meant."

"I think you are bluffing, Mr. Malone." The old man

took off his hat, put it on the

seat beside him. His face was mottled, as if his skin had

been tie-dyed. At certain

moments and in certain moods, Malone decided, Don Auguste Giuffre could be downright ugly. But so far his temper and his voice

were even.

"The kidnappers do not

know who our friend

represents."

"If they don't know who he represents, how do you know who they are? I think you are bluffing too."

Giuffre sat very still for a long moment, then he took

out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

"Every year, this time, I get a cold. I never get used to

the New York climate."

"You should go home to Sicily," said Jefferson.

The old man shook his head.

"Nothing there, Mr.

Jefferson. Everybody I know is dead. Stupid vendettas —"

he looked back at Malone. "You think I am bluffing, Mr. Malone? That is insulting."

"My wife is in danger,"

said Malone. "I didn't come

here to watch my manners.

I'm sure if Mrs. Giuffre was

in the same situation, you wouldn't be too polite."

"My wife is dead, Mr. Malone. But you are right —"

He looked down to the front of the theatre. Mama, God

rest her lately departed soul, had liked Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida. If anyone had ever attempted to kidnap Mama, he, personal- ly, would have cut his heart

out.

"I am trying to help you.

Mr. Malone. And the Mayor."

"How?" Malone demand-

ed.

"Everybody has the wrong picture of us Italians. The negroes also, eh, Mr.

Jefferson?"

"At least you're the right

color."

"You think so? An olive skin, dark hair, a name like Giuffre or Rapelli or Gasperi, you get into trouble with the police, and what they say? Who you know in the Mafia?" He sighed.

"When I came to America

sixty year ago, nobody talk about the Mafia. My father and me, we had an oyster lease in those days. There were colored folk there too, nice peaceful people from

the South, and we got along

fine.

"Men with Italian names

get into trouble with the police, lots of them, but nobody say anything about

the Mafia."

Jefferson said nothing, his

dark face an asset in the

gloom. He had heard this plea so often he could recite it by heart. The honest,

decent Italians were entitled to resent being classed as all related to the Mafia, but that did not say there was no

Mafia.

"Why do they call you Don Auguste?"

Giuffre shrugged.

"Just respect, Mr. Jeffer- son. And a little pride for me, too, I suppose — it's a title. Like yours. Why do they call you Captain?"

"Maybe because I earned

it."

"Me, too. I have done much good in this parish — ask the priests and the sisters, ask anybody. Now I want to do some good for the Mayor."

"Why him?" Malone

asked.

"The Mayor, he is not gonna stay in City Hall. If we have an Italian in the White House, nobody say all Italians belong to the Mafia. Mr. Forte, everybody respect him, I would like to see him in the White House, the first Italian President."

"All right, then, help us. But don't let's waste time." Malone held up his watch, looked at it in the dim light. "If these people stick to their deadline, every minute

counts."

"I got information on all

those men in The Tombs.

Maybe more than you got,

Mr. Jefferson —"

For a moment there was a

twinkle in the dark eyes. "You try Fred Parker, ask

him about San Francisco and

Pasquale Panoli."

He stood up stepped out into the aisle, and looked down with distaste at the litter.

"Was a very clean place when we ran pictures here. Everywhere. Up there —" he gestured at the screen "— here, everywhere. It's a dirty world now."

"He should know," said Jefferson as they got into

their car. "It's his kind that

made it dirty. I just never understand the split in their characters. They lead blameless family lives — they go to church, bring their kids up strict, protect and respect their women. Yet that old man has ordered more contracts —"

"Contracts?"

"Orders to kill. He's handed out more of those than I can count — but we've never been able to lay a finger on him. He runs the drug racket in South Brooklyn and there isn't a bar or restaurant for miles around that he isn't leaning on in some way or other.

"He's got the prostitution game sewed up and he runs

two union locals in the construction business. He sure knows it's a dirty

world."

"I'll worry about my conscience later — when I get my wife back."

Malone watched Giuffre,

his elbow held solicitously by his grandson, cross the sidewalk and get into the big black Cadillac drawn up in

with it — but still it had something. If we could have taken it over then — But I'm

tired now —

"I mean I'm tired of what I've been doing all these years. The kids today are different — I don't even speak their language. I had nothing to do with that bombing we're in here for. Okay, okay — " He held up a

hand.

"I know. You're not the one I'm supposed to plead before. But if they offer me a ticket to Cuba tomorrow. I'm gonna take it. Do you think the Malia operates there?"

"What has the Mafia got on you?" Malone asked.

"Nothing. I don't even know what they know about me. But they must have kept tabs on me all this time. How, I wouldn't know.

"I changed my name three times after leaving 'frisco — it was 1936. '37, before I became Fred Parker. When the file started — " He grinned at Jefferson.

"Parker," said Malone

carefully, "something is going to happen to my wife and the Mayor's wife if we don't release you from here and fly you to Cuba — "

"Latrobe isn't old enough to have graduated from college. This could be a high school graduation present."

"The ring could be

anything." said Davidson holding it up to the light. "It's just got two colors, black and gold, with the initials ZT laid over it. Those could be his initials."

"Could it be a high school ring.'' Jefferson took the ring. "ZT. There's the Zachary Taylor High School out on Long Island. Did anybody check this out?"

"Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. That's the job of you guys up at Headquarters, John. We just look after them when you bring 'em

in."

Jefferson gave him a sourly amused look.

"If Latrobe was so keen on hiding his identity, why did he keep something like

this?" he said.

"Sentiment." said Ma- lone. "Maybe some girl gave it to him, or his parents. Maybe that and the fountain pen are the only links he has with who he really is and he couldn't bear to give them up."

Jelterson nodded. "I think we'd do better to go straight out to the school."

"This time of night?"

"There'll be a caretaker, or someone in the neighbor- hood who can tell us where weean find the principal."

"One thing before we go," Malone said to

Davidson. "That white streak

in Latrobe's hair — Did you run any photos of him in the newspapers? Nobody came

forward to identify him from thal?"

"That streak has only

come out since he's been in here. That's two months

now. It must have been dyed when they first brought him in. No, nobody's come forward. For him or any of

them."

Malone nodded, then gestured toward the phone.

"May I call the Mayor, just to let him know where I am. And just in case he's had another message."

Davidson waved at the phone and Malone waited for the switchboard operator

to connect him.

"Inspector Malone? This is Lieutenant Denning," a voice said. "The Mayor has been trying to reach you for the last hour. He wants you

to call him at City Hall."

Malone pressed down the receiver buttons, then asked to be connected to City Hall. While he was wailing he

looked at Jefferson.

"I'm not daring to hope, but do you think ?"

Jefferson shrugged. "We could have been lucky. Let's hope so."

Then Michael Forte came on the phone.

"Inspector Malone? Sco-

bie — where have you been." Where are you now?" It was impossible to tell from his voice what news he had. "Get across here to City Hall as soon as you can. Something's come up." .................................................................

"About time you did get back!" Abel burst into a

string of oaths, glowering at

Carole. Then he swallowed

his anger as he saw her stiffen. "'Sorry, baby."

"I'm not blaming you, honey —"

"Blaming me?" The anger sprang up in him again. What was she talking about? Blaming him? "You go off. you stay away half the night, you leave me here like I'm some baby-sitter — !"

He swore again and she

hit him across the mouth. He raised his own hand to retaliate and she stood in

front of him, her eyes cold

and hard.

"Hit me, and that's the end! I don't need you —"

He slowly lowered his hand, shook his head dazedly

at what he had almost done. If he had hit her he would

have gone on hitting her

until she was dead. He

slumped down in the chair

behind him.

"I'm sorry, baby. Don't let's fight —"

Still unmoving. Carole stared at him, wondering

what to do with him. She did not need him from now on

and the longer he stayed with

her the more difficult it

would be to get rid of him

when the time came. But if

she told him to go now . . .

She had seen the look in

his eyes, had recognised the danger sign that she had glimpsed before but had told herself was only her imagination.

But his anger would some day break out of him entirely

and he would not be able to control it. She had seen the

same look in the eyes of the policeman who had clubbed Roy to death.

She turned away from

him, went out to the kitchen and began to make coffee. She took down a cup and

saucer, hesitated, then took

down three more cups and

saucers.

lt would be a simple means of letting him know

that all four of them in this

cottage were bound together,

whether he liked it or not.

She felt rather than heard

him come to the doorway.

""Carole — I was worried,

baby 1 anything could've happened to you, you

know?"

He came into the kitchen, slid on to one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

She turned round, sat on

one of the stools opposite

him. She and her brother Mark used to sit here in the

early hours of the morning,

when each of them had come

back from a party.

The memory was too sudden and too sharp, she

felt a catch in her throat and

spoke abruptly.

"I heard on the car radio that they've closed all the

airports between Washington

and Boston."

"What are we gonna do then — I mean if they can't

take those guys to Cuba?" Abel was scowling again.

"'I'll — we'll have to think about tl." She made a concession, let him think he

might help in the decisions. The coffee had begun to percolate and she got up and

turned down the burner.

"There s something else —

someone named Frank Padua."

"Who's Frank Padua?"

"I don't really know. He's someone in politics, but what

he is, I don't know."

Carole looked for some-

thing to eat with the coffee: suddenly she was very hungry.

She had hardly eaten all day, consumed as she had been by nervous excitement. She rattled through the cans of food in the cupboards, her fingers thick and awkward with anger and nerves.

Since the death of Roy

she had not been able to

handle close relationships, her capacity for tolerance and sympathy eroded by the

bitter grief that was still part

of her.

lt had taken her weeks to commit herself to Abel and

she had only done so when she had finally decided he was necessary to the success of her scheme. A crisis in

their relationship was something else she had not anticipated. She grabbed a

can of chili con carne, fumbled with it at the can-opener mounted on the

wall.

Abel took the can from

her, opened it expertly, and she emptied thc contents into

a saucepan.

"Have you fed the

women?"

"No. I was too worried

about you."

Carole found two more

cans of chili, opened them

herself this time, and added

the contents to that already in the saucepan. He watched her, then abruptly he

wheeled round and went

back into the living-room.

She turned down the burner under the coffee as

low as possible, began to stir the chili in the saucepan. She

fell weak and exhausted and,

for the first time, hopeless.

Was it really worthwhile going through with the operation?

The journey back from

Manhattan had been a

nightmare, even on the almost deserted expressways and roads. And riding with her had been the nagging

wonder at who Frank Padua

really was and how he had

become involved in the

kidnapping.

Then she had reached

home only to be harassed by this new tense relationship

with Abel.

Carole could not remem- ber the first time she had

seen Abel, only the first time

she had noticed him. He had

been in her night class three weeks then, a quiet boy sitting right back at the tar

corner of the classroom.

She had been teaching English, the course aimed at those who had never got above the tenth grade.

It had taxed her patience to lower her intelligence to

that of the class in front of her. But the school had

provided the retreat she wanted — a night class in one of the poorer sections of Kansas City.

to your car?" She looked at him curiously and he stumbled on. "I heard a coupla guys talking. They gonna wait for you outside."

"Who?" she asked him. He shook his head.

"Dunno their names. But

they been talking dirty about you. I wouldn't want nothing to happen to you, you

know?"

Her first reaction had been to brush him off, but there had been something in his face that had suddenly caught her, a look of concern that told her that this boy saw her as more than just a pick-up date.

And when they got outside, there were indeed two boys from the class waiting there. They had said nothing, just stared sullenly at her and Abel, then hurried off into the night. They had

never come to her classes again.

The relationship with Abel had developed slowly. She would occasionally have coffee with him, but she had kept the association on a strictly teacher-student level and he had accepted it.

She told him nothing about herself, but she learned that he came from Chicago, that he had run away from home at sixteen, and now was working as a laundry deliveryman in

Kansas City.

He had come to night school because he had some vague ambition to better himself. But what had intrigued her was that his

hatred of the Establishment

(though he did not call it that) and its uses of authority was even stronger than her

own.

Then two months ago there had occurred the incident for which she had been waiting four long years, the opportunity to revenge herself on the society that

had killed her husband.

There had been an added sweet irony that the revenge would be effected through the release of Mark.

She had suffered a severe shock when she had seen his

photo in the papers as one of thc anarchists, because she had had no idea what he had been involved in since she had left home.

The plan had come into her mind as a sudden inspiration. She had spent the next few days studying it as thoroughly as any course she had taken at College and decided to lake Abel in with

her.

She had told Abel

nothing of Roy or Mark. The plan was just to effect the release of five men who

believed the same as they

did, that all authority was

rotten.

But once she had involved him, she had had to commit herself to him. He had at once lost his shyness with her, had told her what she

had suspected, that he was in

I love with her.

She had had no man in bed with her since Roy, but

she felt she owed Abel

something and she had

allowed him to make love to

her. He was a fumbling, aggressive lover and she had

tried to educate him. He had mistaken her self-interest for

an expression of love for

himself.

From then on she had known that when she had to

break away from him it would have to be secretly

and she would have to head for a destination where he would never find her.

She might even have to join Mark in Cuba. ....................................................

The Cubans have said

they won't take Parker and

the others." Michael Forte told Malone. "The Swiss spoke to them for us, and they won't allow any plane carrying them to land there."

"But why not?"

"They didn't give us their

reasons, but the Swiss guess they are fed up with being a

haven for American malcon-

tents. They've suggested we try somewhere else."

"Where, for instance?"

"The State Department is trying Algeria. But we have to do that through channels too — we have no diplomatic exchange with them. The Swiss are handling it for us

knew he was trapped, that there was nothing he personally could do. Even as a lowly cop he had known the hobbling effects of protocol.

As soon as he had entered

the Mayor's office he knew there was no good news for

him. There was an air of crisis, reflected in the tense manner of all the men gathered there.

He recognised most of the faces, but there was one new one: that of Pat Brendan, the District Attorney.

Malone spoke to him

now.

"You've agreed, then, to let Parker and the others go?"

Brendan looked around at the other men before he replied.

"I don't think we'd ever

considered the possibility of not letting them go —" He

saw the look on Malone's

face and read it correctly. He

was no fool.

"Well, maybe we did

think about it. We've had

enough pressures on us —"

"Have you found out anything at all?" Malone

said.

"We think we have a

trace on one of the

kidnappers." Cartwright, the

FBI man, said. "A woman

phoned in from Jamaica, out on Long Island.

"She'd heard the descrip- tion on TV of the grey delivery truck used in the kidnapping, and she told us about one she'd seen being

driven into the house across the street from her. She said the people were newcomers, a young couple.

"We checked — there was

nobody in the house, but the truck was in the garage, minus its licence plates, and there were some fingerprints

on the wheel.

"They belong to Joseph

Abel Swokowski. who was

booked two years ago in Louisville, Kentucky, for taking a stolen car across a State line. He slugged the officer who was taking him to court and got away."

"And that's all you have

so far?"

Cartwright hesitated, then

nodded. What did this Aussie cop expect —

miracles?

"Inspector, we're doing

all we can. But we need one

piece of luck — something to turn up — " He sighed.

"Trouble is, there seems no connection at all between those men in The Tombs and

the kidnappers."

"What happens if the Algerians won't take them?"

said Malone.

""I don't know — I just

don't know." Michael Forte

closed his eyes for a moment. "I have to go on the air in

another forty-five minutes. I'm asking the kidnappers for some definite proof that

our wives are still alive.

"If they produce proof — let our wives speak to us on the phone would be good enough — then we'll release

those men at seven tomorrow morning. I've chartered a 707 — it's standing by, ready to go as soon as we give them

the word."

"Where have you been tonight, Inspector?" Sam Forte asked as silence fell. In the middle of the worst night of his life, he looked as impeccable as ever. He had had a nap after dinner, then taken a bath, changed and come down here to City Hall determined to sit out the hours till Sylvia and the Malone woman were re- turned safely.

Joe Burgmann. Michael Forte's campaign director, had been in touch with him

and told him that the swing now appeared to be back to Michael and that if it kept up

the election tomorrow would be in the bag.

So one issue was safe. Now he could concentrate on the safe return of Sylvia. Oh,

and the Malone woman.

In the meantime Malone himself looked as if he would have to be humored. If he

started talking to the Press in his present mood he might alienate the sympathy that was building up for Michael.

"I called you. I thought you might have cared for some company while Michael was out, but my grandchildren told me you had gone out with Captain

Jefferson."

"Where did you take the Inspector, John?" said Hungerford.

Malone and Jefferson looked at each other, then Jefferson answered, his face bland.

"I thought the same as Mr. Forte — that Inspector Malone might like some company. We continued our tour that was interrupted this morning, showing him how we operate."'

Malone glanced at Michael Forte, saw the quick warning frown and was puzzled for a moment. Then

it clicked. Michael did not want Frank Padua men- tioned in front of those in this room.

"I was just filling in

time." he said to Sam Forte.

"Trying to keep my mind off what might be happening to my wife and Mrs. Forte."

There was a tap on the door and the Mayor's secretary, wan and tired looking, put her head into

the room.

"Mr. Mayor, the State Department is on the line."

"I'll take it in here." Michael Forte picked up the phone.

"Yes, this is Mayor Forte. Any news from Algeria?"

The look on his face instantly told the others the news was bad. He listened for a while, once or twice offering a half-argument, but

encouragement and at last he hung up. "The Algerians won't play ball either. The Swiss said they considered the request for an hour, then came out with a flat no. No reasons, just no and that was it."

"But why—"

"The Swiss think the Algerians got in touch with the Cubans in that hour and they've both decided it was a good opportunity to embar- rass us politically. The State Department agrees the Swiss opinion is probably right. Anyhow, that's how it is. I'm sorry, Scobie. Your wife is being made to pay for being

in America."

"That's no way to talk, Mike," said Burgmann. "If a quote like that got out —"

"Relax," said Malone sourly. He was sick and exhausted. "I'm not going to go quoting the Mayor to the Press. I'm sure I'm the only one you're worried about, so put your mind at rest."

Manny Pearl, the pourer of oil on waters that looked like developing into rapids, interrupted.

"I think we'd better start

getting ready for your broadcast, Mr. Mayor. If you gentlemen would excuse

him—?"

In the next few minutes

he gave a demonstration of

how to clear a room of

people and a volatile atmosphere. Only Malone,

on a nod from Michael

Forte, and Sam Forte stayed behind, as the others, diplomatically herded by Manny Pearl, filed out the doorway.

"He's a genius at it. He once got rid of the Vice-President when he was up here telling me how to run the city." Michael Forte smiled for the first time since Malone had entered the room. "If I'm re-elected tomorrow, maybe I should put him on to slum clearance."

"I thought that was what he was doing then," said Malone; then gestured, "Sorry, I didn't mean that."

"Where did you really go tonight? I mean, before you finished up at The Tombs?" Michael Forte asked. "When

I talked to my son I had the feeling he was holding something back from me. Was he?"

Yes" Malone admitted. "Don't blame him — I told him t0 keep his mouth shut. I went to see Frank Padua."

Forte swore.

"Don't you know when to leave things alone?"

"Ordinarily — yes. But this is different — my wife's

in danger."

"What's all this about?" Sam Forte said.

His son told him, then looked back at Malone.

And I suppose you got nowhere? I just hope you

didn't let him think I'd sent

you —"

"He knows who sent me

—you don't have to worry.

We had a bit of a

donneybrook, but it paid off."

Malone then narrated the

events of the evening.

"Jefferson and I have this small clue about Latrobe. It

may mean nothing, but it's as much as anyone else has dug up. We want to go out and check it. Unless you want me

to turn it over to the FBI and

the Police Department?"

Michael Forte looked at his father. The old man

spread his hands, not wanting to make the

decision, and Michael

suddenly thought: all my life you've been pushing me, but never once have you laid your neck on the line, not

even now. He looked back at Malone.

"What do you want to

do?"

"If it leads to something definite, then it will be too big for us, and we'll turn it over to the Police Depart- ment," Malone said slowly.

"But first I'd like a crack at it with Jefferson." ...............................................................................

Jefferson gripped the wheel, holding the car steady against the cross-wind as they came on to the Long Island Expressway.

The storm showed no sign of abating. The wind and the

rain seemed to have become

stronger and heavier. There

was little traffic on the

expressway and what there

was of it was slowed almost to a crawl.

"Where do we go first?"

Malone asked.

"We'll try the local precinct house. They'd know where the high school principal lives."

They pulled up outside the precinct house, ran through the rain, and finished up in a room empty of people but for the duty sergeant dozing at the front desk. He straightened up, stiffening as the two wet strangers came bursting in.

Jefferson produced his badge, then explained their errand, and the sergeant looked with interest at Malone.

But Jefferson declined the offer, asked directions to the school, and he and Malone hurried out to the car again. Ten minutes later they were being led into the Zachary Taylor High School by the principal.

Hellibrand was a man in his mid-forties who at

another time of day might have been jovial. Now he

was irritable and curious as

to why two policemen, one of them an Australian, should want to look through copies of the school year-book.

When Jefferson explained who Malone was, the irritation suddenly went out of Hellibrand's face, to be replaced by genuine sympa- thy.

"Well, of course. If there's anything I can do — Latrobe? No, I can't remember anyone of that name — I have a good memory for names. How far do you want to look back? Five, six years? There they

are.

"I often wonder what the kids in them have achieved since. One of them I know, is already a guest of the government. He got life for shooting his father. He

wasn't one of the more

promising students."

Malone and Jefferson had

been flicking through the books. Young faces smiled up at them. Then Malone stopped, finger pressed down on a face: thin, unsmiling, a

white streak in the dark hair.

"That's Latrobe."

Hellibrand looked at the

caption under the photo.

"Mark Birmingham? You mean you think he's one of the men who kidnapped your wife?"

"No, he's in The Tombs on a bomb conspiracy charge. He's an anarchist. But we think he can give us a